


The Promise of Hay

by sevensilvermagpies



Series: Works for Themed Weeks/Challenges [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Developing Relationship, Gen, Hobbit Courting, Multi, rosie knows what she wants and goes out to get it, the very important conversation between the two non-amourous partners in a poly relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25135750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevensilvermagpies/pseuds/sevensilvermagpies
Summary: Soon it will be the first harvest of the season, and Sam has left her in the early morn with a kiss on her cheek to walk the Burrows’ field’s, sickle in hand and straw sunhat upon his head, to cut the first crop of wheat.And it was on this morning in early Halimath that Rosie Cotton tucked her mother's best tea towel tight across the top of her best market basket, and marched up the road to Bag End.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins & Rose Cotton, Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Rose Cotton/Sam Gamgee
Series: Works for Themed Weeks/Challenges [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819288
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39
Collections: Tolkien Gen Week 2020





	The Promise of Hay

**Author's Note:**

> The promise of hay sweeter,   
> than this tired winter grass.  
> Here, at the top of the field,   
> in the cold rise above the farm   
> where the wind sits heavy   
> on the sun’s shine,   
> grass grips close to soil.   
>  \- Spoils, Adam Horovitz
> 
> For Tolkien Gen Week 2020, Day 3: Gray Spaces

Soon it will be the first harvest of the season, and Sam has left her in the early morn with a kiss on her cheek to walk the Burrows’ fields, sickle in hand and straw sunhat upon his head, to cut the first crop of wheat. The air is heavy with anticipation and the lanes buzz with soft chatter as hobbits of every age, from Frogmorton to Michel Delving, tumble out of their smials and out into the morning sun. But it will take near a half hour before work in the fields begins in earnest, for Hobbits are first and foremost social creatures, and will inevitably gathering round with whetstones and picnic baskets sharing breakfasts as they sharpen tools, leaving just enough time for a determined hobbit lass to take a detour before she is expected to join the rest of the hands. And so it was on this morning in early Halimath that Rosie Cotton tucked her mother's best tea towel tight across the top of her best market basket, and marched up the road to Bag End. 

She arrives, panting slightly from the incline, and stands in anticipation before the door. Her fist, raised to knock, never lands as the door is yanked open in front of her and Frodo stumbles out - shirt half untucked and jacket in hand. For a second the tousled appearance, and his expression of shock and mild embarrassment, trick her into thinking the Frodo she knew from childhood is stood before her once more. 

But the longer they stare at each other in the sharp light of the morning, the deeper the shadows under his eyes seem to grow, and the draw of his mouth, though closed, speaks of countless night’s sleep lost and never regained. His very breath seems to be stolen from him, for he makes no sound as Rosie huffs determinedly and ushers him back inside his own house. 

Memory takes her feet to the kitchen, where the kettle rests on its stand by the stove, and habit drives him to settle it over stoked embers and pull down two cups from the cupboard. Silence weaves its way around the two of them as leaves are steeped and the biscuit tin opened. He’s got the best ones out for her, she notices, the ones that come out for family only. Blocky things, even though they’re best WestFarthing pottery; specially made extra large handles, a dark blue wash that’s never really been in fashion this far west. She keeps the chit chat light, practised as they are in not talking about what’s brewing just out of site. But eventually the teacups run dry, whilst the clock on the mantelpiece steadily ticks ever closer to the start of harvest.

The sound of her cup settling in the saucer seems to ring with a note of finality. 

"Sam gave me these this morning," her voice heavy with meaning as she places two carved wooden hair combs on the table. There is no response. 

“They’re beautiful aren’t they.” One finger reaches out to trace the curve of a petal, “Peonies, Ivy, Forget-me-nots...”

Frodo's face contorts itself into an image of joy, as if someone had painted over his delicate features, and nods along. She wonders if he knew from the start, if Sam had asked him for his advice, how long he had taken to make his peace with it. He answers her question before she can even think of asking him; in the halting, lilting tune his voice has become he speaks of Sam’s care and skill, how he had spent many hours debating over the type of wood to use, and a wistful look glazes over his eyes. Rosie listens vaguely, the words washing over her. The words for what she wants to say next are stuck somewhere in her throat, and she has no desire to interrupt Frodo now, for it has been so long since she heard him speak at such length. He seems to notice her staring however, and it starts him out of his reminiscing. 

“Are you going to wear them at harvest today?” 

“No.” The question jolts her back into the conversation, and she already regrets her sharp answer. Frodo’s face is white with shock, and he can only blink at her. 

Eventually he stutters, the words tumbling out of his mouth so fast they almost trip over each other, “but… but will you- you will be accepting?” 

“Maybe,” and she feels a twinge of guilt about the lie - for she knows she could never refuse Sam her heart, their love runs too deep in her and they have given too much - but Frodo is appropriately stunned. His mouth opens and closes, but she moves before he can respond, desperate to regain control over the conversation.

“I have my own offers to make first." 

The basket is placed reverently on the table, and out of it she draws a coat of midnight blue, cuffed and collared in short cream fur. In her memory it is a battered old thing, more grey than blue and black in places with all manner of stains, but love and care has rescued it first from the rag pile, then made it good as new. There is a soft gasp from across the table, as she lets it unfurl and hang in the air like a promise. She is hidden from Frodo’s sight behind the coat and in that moment she is grateful, for it feels as though she is holding Sam’s own heart, alive and beating, in her hands. 

“I have always been fond of you Frodo,” his head pops up above the coat, eyes comically wide. It is all she can do not to peal with nervous laughter, and reassure him “Not in a courting way, you know Sam is lover enough for me. But did we not grow up together as playmates and friends. I have not forgotten many harvests full of laughter and perhaps an inadvisable amount of ale, though even deep in your cups you were ever the kindest gentleman.” 

“You think too highly of me Rosie,” he says, gingerly taking her precious cargo and laying it across his lap. 

“Oh you are a strange one and always were, but our strange one nonetheless.”

She knew she wouldn’t understand what he and Sam had been through together as soon as the Sam had sat her down to spin their long and troublesome journey into a cohesive tale. But before Sam had even tried to explain she had known their souls had grown intertwined, a bond none of them could ignore, the roots of their hearts digging deep in times of trouble for solid ground and finding a deep well of love to keep them watered eternally. And she would not have them separated.

"Even if we do not love each other in the same way we love Sam, you are dear to me Frodo Baggins. I worried for your safe return as much as Sam’s and I would not see you without comfort again for all your days." And then Frodo nods shakily, his mouth moving soundlessly, and then again, and again, till he reaches out and clasps her hands. It’s all she can do to clasp them back, grinning with joy and relief, fit to burst.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dee, my personal pocket Pippin.


End file.
